Drawing his watch from under his pillow, he saw that it was seven o’clock.  Without waking his wife, he got out of bed and pulled the blind a little to one side.  It was snowing heavily, and, as is the way when it snows, even in London, everything was strangely, curiously still.  After he had dressed he went out into the passage.  As he had at once dreaded and hoped, their newspaper was already lying on the mat.  It was probably the sound of its being pushed through the letter-box which had waked him from his unrestful sleep.

He picked the paper up and went into the sitting-room then, shutting the door behind him carefully, he spread the newspaper wide open on the table, and bent over it.

As Bunting at last looked up and straightened himself, an expression of intense relief shone upon his stolid face.  The item of news he had felt certain would be printed in big type on the middle sheet was not there.

CHAPTER XXII

Feeling amazingly light-hearted, almost light-headed, Bunting lit the gas-ring to make his wife her morning cup of tea.

While he was doing it, he suddenly heard her call out: 

“Bunting!” she cried weakly.  “Bunting!” Quickly he hurried in response to her call.  “Yes,” he said.  “What is it, my dear?  I won’t be a minute with your tea.”  And he smiled broadly, rather foolishly.

She sat up and looked at him, a dazed expression on her face.

“What are you grinning at?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’ve had a wonderful piece of luck,” he explained.  “But you was so cross last night that I simply didn’t dare tell you about it.”

“Well, tell me now,” she said in a low voice.

“I had a sovereign given me by the young lady.  You see, it was her birthday party, Ellen, and she’d come into a nice bit of money, and she gave each of us waiters a sovereign.”

Mrs. Bunting made no comment.  Instead, she lay back and closed her eyes.

“What time d’you expect Daisy?” she asked languidly.  “You didn’t say what time Joe was going to fetch her, when we was talking about it yesterday.”

“Didn’t I?  Well, I expect they’ll be in to dinner.”

“I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?” said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully.  All the cheer died out of Bunting’s round face.  He became sullen and angry.  It would be a pretty thing if he couldn’t have his own daughter for a bit—­especially now that they were doing so well!

“Daisy’ll stay here just as long as she can,” he said shortly.  “It’s too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that!  She helps you all she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much.  Besides, ’twould be cruel—­cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and that young chap are making friends-like.  One would suppose that even you would see the justice o’ that!”

But Mrs. Bunting made no answer.